


The Fireside Peace Talks

by wyntera



Series: Dungeons And Noodle Dragons AU [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Pathfinder AU, Peapod McHanzo Week, dungeons & dragons AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: Day 2 of Peapod McHanzo Week 2019!The time has come to clear the bad blood and make amends, but first McCree has to get Hanzo out of another tree.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Peapod McHanzo Week 2019! Day Two's prompt: AU!

Quiet as a mouse, Hanzo eases an arrow from his quiver. The rabbit across the stream has not noticed him, oblivious as Hanzo takes aim. He steadies his hand, eyes on his prize, and calms the beating of his heart. On the exhale, he lets loose the arrow. His prey’s death is swift and merciful.

Hanzo offers up a silent prayer of thanks to the gods before retrieving the rabbit and securing it to his pack with the others. This one is particularly weighty. Altogether they should be enough for the party back at camp, though he is unused to having so many mouths to feed.

McCree’s rescue plan went off without a hitch. The ensuing battle was as chaotic as any one has with goblins, but the party of eight escaped without major injury. Genji was even able to hang onto most of their spoils. They made a hasty retreat once they reached freedom, hoping to put as much distance between themselves and the surviving—and most likely vengeful—goblin horde. Hanzo had assumed that once they were safe enough the two groups would go their separate ways and, hopefully, never set eyes on each other again.

But that had not happened. Not even close.

He can hear the dragonborn from here, the booming voice carrying far out into the forest. Foolish. Does he not realize he could attract monsters with all that boisterous noise? A beacon for every bandit and brigand within range. Irritation has Hanzo gritting his teeth as he makes his way toward the camp, his fist clenched around the haft of Stormbow. 

A short walk and Hanzo catches sight of a glow through the trees. Everyone is gathered around the fire having already unpacked bedrolls and set up tents. The loud dragonborn, Reinhardt, spreads his wings when he talks, whatever story he is sharing with the group distracting him from controlling his wingspan. He takes up nearly as much space as Genji with his dryder body. They both certainly dwarf the aasimar and half-elf, the latter of which is happily chattering and gesturing at Genji, seeming completely at ease with his form now that they have had a chance to converse. Angela looks much more reserved wrapped in a spare blanket and scooted in close to Reinhardt, like their bulky companion will jump in and shield her if anything goes awry. Zenyatta and Morrison act as oddly stoney-faced bookends on either side of the fire, if for very different reasons.

McCree kneels in the center adding another log to the pile, nodding at whatever Reinhardt is talking about. He seems just at ease now as he is any other time, like having four uninvited and unwanted tagalongs is a typical day for him, nothing abnormal, nothing infuriating. And his horns are out, exposed for all to see. It just winds Hanzo all the tighter.

Weaving through the undergrowth, Hanzo is about to make his presence known when a discordant chime sounds overhead, making him startle. The group turns, blades drawn, when the Lena hops to her feet. “Sorry about that! Set up an alarm for us.” She waves a hand that leaves a flowing aqua trail, and the clanging stops. “I tried to cast it with you in mind, but I’m not used to warding with so many exceptions.”

“Nothin’ to worry about,” McCree says, standing as Hanzo approaches. “Looks like you had a good hunt.”

Hanzo only offers a hum of agreement, handing over the clutch of tied rabbits. The tepid response is enough for McCree’s face to crease with worry, catching Hanzo’s gaze with his own. He can read the concern there, and Hanzo tries his best to convey with only his eyes how much he does not like their current situation. It will do no good, of course; McCree is not going to send these people away, not after what they endured. It is not in his nature to harm without reason. Hanzo will just have to deal until they are gone.

Not that he has to like it.

“I will take watch,” Hanzo says, immediately turning to head back to the treeline. He makes it half a step before McCree’s arm snags his own.

“You should stay,” he tries. 

Hanzo shakes his arm free. “No, thank you.”

If he stomps a little harder than necessary when he leaves the uneven circle of people, he will blame it on the rough terrain. He ignores his brother calling him back. He also ignores the pangs of doubt in his heart, and the flash of hurt he saw on McCree’s face when he pulled from the tiefling’s grasp. Instead, he finds the tallest tree he can, climbs to the top, and settles in.

McCree clamors up the tree half an hour later.

“Hey, Han,” he huffs, gripping the trunk and hauling himself up onto the branch below Hanzo. His boots scrape at the rough bark, sending bits and pieces of it scattering down on the ground below. The branch gives a groan of protest and McCree looks momentarily panicked before the tree settles. He looks up at the drow above him. “Nice evenin’ for a climb.”

Hanzo chooses not to answer. Rather, he tightens his crossed arms over his chest and stares resolutely out into the dark shadows of the forest. He can hear McCree sigh. “Darlin’, as much as I love that pouty face you make, ain’t this a bit much?”

“I am not pouting.” Hanzo can imagine McCree rolling his eyes even as he says it. Sure enough, he can hear McCree muttering something unsavory about drow and their stubborn ways before the tree begins to shake again. Much to his dismay, when Hanzo glances over the side of his own branch he sees McCree attempting to climb that much higher. “Stop. Stop! You are going to fall,” Hanzo hisses, snagging McCree’s sleeve.

“Aww, worried about little ole me?” McCree simpers, batting his eyelashes up at him even as he throws both arms around the branch Hanzo rests upon.

Exasperated, Hanzo grips McCree by the chest and hoists him up the rest of the way, not releasing his steel grip until he is sure McCree’s thighs are clamped around the branch. “You are an idiot that should keep his feet on the ground,” he replies, batting a few clingy leaves from McCree’s serape.

“I’d be happy to, but I seem to have gone and hitched my heart to an aarakocra,” McCree counters. It earns him a half-hearted shove to the shoulder. “Do I need to start checkin’ you for feathers? Not that I’m complainin’, mind you, I’m sure plenty of people are into that sorta thing, but I hear they go through a molt somethin’ fierce—”

“Shut up.” Damn the fool, Hanzo has to turn his head to the side so McCree cannot see the way his mouth struggles not to smile. A smattering of laughter from below reminds him of his anger and he clenches his jaw, tension stiffening his shoulders once again.

McCree shimmies and shuffles on the branch until he can properly face Hanzo. “You want to tell me why we’re up in this here tree?”

“What you are doing up here is your business. I am keeping watch,” Hanzo states.

“Uh huh. And I’m a Purple Dragon Knight, straight out of the Cormyrian army. You can tell by the big fluffy feather on my head.”

“I have seen you wearing worse.”

“Ouch. Why do I always fall for the mean ones?” Nimble fingers catch in the fabric of Hanzo’s pants, a warm pressure through the leather. “Sweetheart, leave the lyin’ to the professionals. You know you can shoot straight with me.” His voice turns low and honey-sweet. “Please, Hanzo.”

Damn and double damn. Hanzo can feel his resolve crumbling to dust. Against his better judgement, he sneaks a peek at McCree’s face. He is even doing those sad, soulful, imploring eyes that he does, made even more effective without the glamor, making him even more sincere. McCree does not play fair, is the worst cheat Hanzo has ever met, and if he had any sense he’d shove the tiefling right out of this tree. Hanzo glares down at his clenched hands. “I do not want them here.”

McCree lets out a long breath. “I know, darlin’.”

“They are arrogant. Self-righteous. Judgemental, meddlesome cretins. They were fine to look down on us. Would spit on our kind at best and burn us at the stake at worst! But now, no, now that they need something from us, they want peace? How convenient. They could not possibly turn on us once we let our guard down, of course not, because they are so good and decent and pure! And we are disgusting, evil creatures that cannot be trusted, that must drink blood and eat children and-and—”

“Hanzo!” McCree grabs him by the waist when a particularly violent gesture makes Hanzo wobble on the branch. “You’ve made your point, don’t go fallin’ to your death over it.”

“Have I?” Hanzo prods McCree’s chest with a pointed finger. “We spared them from being tortured by goblins. We have done our  _ good deed.”  _ The words drip with sarcasm, are practically saturated with it. “Why must we tolerate them further? Send them on their way and let the fates have them!”

“They are in our debt now,” McCree replies, much calmer than Hanzo expected. The fact that he is not rising to Hanzo’s anger grates his nerves even more. “Whatever you may think of them, they live by a code. They are not going to betray us, not when they owe us their lives.”

“You don’t know that,” Hanzo argues, unaware of how distressed his words have become. “Zenyatta said Morrison is a gray guard now. His God gives him a longer leash. And you know as well as I do that paladins and clerics bend their oaths to suit their needs. What are we going to do when our usefulness runs out, and we are once again on the wrong end of their blades? What am I supposed to do when you are in a banishing circle and ran through?!”

McCree’s face morphs into one of concern. “Hey! Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart, no!” When he pulls, Hanzo falls forward willingly into McCree’s arms. Belatedly, he realizes that his vision has gone glassy with unshed tears. “Is that what this is all about?” McCree asks, combing through Hanzo’s hair.

The sleeves of McCree’s shirt are loose enough for Hanzo to slip a hand inside. He touches the puckered line of raised skin that stretches the length of McCree’s bicep. The details of that horrible memory will always be etched in his mind: the shout of pain torn from McCree’s lips, the splatter of blood on the stone floor, the same blood that soaked Morrison’s blade. The way the magic of the banishing circle cast long shadows on McCree’s face. The fear in McCree’s eyes that was only matched by the fear in Hanzo’s heart at the thought of losing him. “He almost took you from me,” Hanzo whispers. “The only reason he still lives is because you stayed my hand. But there is a difference between having mercy on your enemy and breaking bread with them.”

“I’m hoping that after this night, we will no longer be enemies.” McCree nuzzles at Hanzo’s temple, over his pointed ears, down his sharp cheek. “Oh, love, I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere, I swear to you. The lot of them have made their apologies to me, especially Angela and Morrison, and I sensed no lies on their tongue. My wounds have long healed. I’ve forgiven, because I can see they’re sorry for it. They were actin’ on misguided ignorance, nothing more. It’s nothing worse than I’ve heard my whole life, only for once these people are willing to make amends.”

“I still do not understand how you are so forgiving, after everything that this world has thrown at you,” Hanzo murmurs, burrowing into the warmth of McCree’s chest.

“It threw me you,” McCree counters. He smiles when Hanzo squeezes him around the middle in silent approval. “I seem to recall the last time we were up in a tree was because of them, too. Maybe I should be thankin’ them. That worked out pretty well, if I do say so.”

“Don’t you dare.” He nips at McCree’s neck right above the fabric of his serape. The thought of leaving a mark there crosses his mind, as if to claim McCree all for himself. “We did not need those so-called heroes to get together, we were well on our way to that without their assistance. The situation just pushed things along.”

“And right up a tree.” He ghosts a kiss over Hanzo’s temple. “You sayin’ we’re destined to be together? Aw, Han, didn’t know you could be so sweet.”

Hanzo thumps his head against Jesse’s shoulder and fists his hands in the fabric around his neck, unsure if he should hide in embarrassment or strangle the foolish gunslinger. “Jesse,” he whines.

McCree chuckles but relents. “I know you’re unhappy with our guests, but I’d much rather have them as allies than enemies. Sounds like they’ve ended up on the wrong side of a blade or two since we last ran into ‘em, and it’s given them a whole new perspective on the nature of good and evil and all that nonsense.” Setting Hanzo back so they can see each other, McCree cups Hanzo’s face in his hands. He rubs his thumbs over his cheeks and under his eyes, collecting the tears gathered there and smoothing them away. “Besides, I know if anything goes wrong, you’ll be there to rescue me, right? My handsome hero?”

Hanzo fights the urge but a smile finally breaks through. He rolls his eyes. “You can save yourself just fine.”

“Maybe, but I like when you do. Makes a guy feel special.” McCree leans in and kisses Hanzo, a soft, sweet kiss, apologies and reassurance and love all rolled into one. Hanzo returns it happily. When they part, McCree asks, “Will you come down and eat dinner with me? ‘Cause I really ain’t lookin forward to the idea of carrying stew up a tree.”

The problem with McCree is that he makes it really difficult for Hanzo to hold onto his anger. “Fine,” he says. “But I will not be happy about it.”

McCree just smiles wider, damn him. “I ain’t askin’ you to like ‘em.”

“Good, because I won’t.”

“Okay, sweetpea. Whatever you say.” He throws one leg over the branch to start climbing down then pauses, his face level with Hanzo’s. “Didn’t hear you denying the whole destined-to-be-together thing.”

Hanzo cups Jesse’s jaw and plants another thorough kiss on the gunslinger, being sure to steal the man’s breath. When he pulls back McCree looks dazed. Hanzo drags his thumb over the warm swell of McCree’s bottom lip. “I would like to see destiny try to take you from me,” he says. Then he grabs McCree’s hat and shoves it over his face. “Now get down, you idiot. I am hungry.”

McCree just straightens his hat and laughs as he heads down the tree. “Always the mean ones, I swear.”


	2. Chapter 2

Only when Hanzo is on the ground and the tantalizing scent of cooking rabbit hits his nose does he realize how hungry he is. The last time they ate was that morning before their infiltration of Rut’ledge Keep. After everything that has happened today, breakfast seems ages ago. His stomach rumbles loud enough for McCree to hear it. “Come on,” he chuckles, guiding Hanzo forward with a light touch to his back. “Can’t have my favorite archer faintin’ from starvation.”

The chatter dies down somewhat as they approach, the group around the campfire noticing their return. Hanzo can see the newcomers tense with his presence. They are not subtle, these four. Hanzo is no stranger to distrustful gazes but the half-elf could at least pretend not to stare.

True to form, Zenyatta cares not for the awkward social cues of elves and men. “Ah, what splendid timing,” he says, serene as always as he lifts the lid on their cookpot. “I believe the stew is ready, but I will need one of you to confirm for me.”

“Sure thing, Zennie,” McCree replies. “You’re gettin’ the hang of cookin’ pretty well for someone that can’t eat.” Sweeping through the middle of the group, McCree leans over to check Zenyatta’s assessment while allowing Hanzo to subtly slip into the circle, taking a seat next to Genji.

“So nice of you to join us, brother,” Genji murmurs from the corner of his mouth. The tease is followed by a smirk that Hanzo chooses to ignore.

Reinhardt tries for a smile, wanting to break the tension. “Angela found some herbs and wild potatoes nearby. Between that and your hunt, we shall be eating well tonight.”

“It is nothing,” Angela says, waving it off with a demure duck of her head. She’s bracketed on either side by Reinhardt and Lena, her arms and legs drawn in close and tucked under a blanket around her shoulders. Her body language screams nervousness, but she forces herself to look Hanzo in the eye. “Genji, ah, said you usually supply the food?”

“Hanzo’s quite the hunter,” McCree says when Hanzo offers nothing but a nod. “Knows his way around a forest, that’s for sure. Pretty impressive for a fella that grew up in the Underdark.” He takes a careful sip of the stew with the spoon Zenyatta extends his way. “Ah, yeah, that’s real nice. I’d say that’s ready.”

“We did come up to the surface on occasion,” Genji points out, digging through one of their packs for wooden bowls and spoons. “And do not give Hanzo all the credit; I have done my share of providing.”

“Accidentally scaring a traveling vendor into abandoning their cart ain’t hunting,” McCree points out with a smirk.

Genji scoffs. “It counts!”

“Is that usually a problem?” Lena asks from Genji’s other side. Now that Hanzo is paying attention, she seems quite fascinated with the dryder, her eyes wide with curiosity. “I can’t imagine it’s easy moving about like that. How do you go about resupplying? Are there towns you can go to?”

“We are not welcome most places,” Hanzo intones seriously.

He means for it to come off as accusatory, and from the way Lena recoils his barb is successful. The effect is ruined a bit when McCree chimes in, “That’s where I come in.” He begins spooning out the thick stew into bowls and passing them around, first to their guests that eagerly take their helpings with quiet thanks. “I made a career out of getting things for those that can’t, you know. I’d be more than happy to go on a supply run for folks, just take a little coin off the top. All it takes is a pretty face.” He waves a free hand in front of his face and his demonic countenance is replaced with a more human visage, though the grin is identical.

Much to Hanzo’s surprise, Lena lets out a delighted laugh. “Fantastic! These fuddy-duddies always get creeped out when I cast alter self! Good to see at least someone around here appreciates a little subterfuge.” With a series of complicated hand motions and a phrase in an ancient tongue, Lena’s entire appearance bends and morphs like liquid. When she settles again, she looks identical to the McCree at his side, right down to the freckles on his cheeks and the scar on his lip. The only difference is their clothing, the wizard’s robe quite a bit tighter with the breadth of McCree’s broad shoulders underneath.

Genji’s head swivels between the two and he groans. “Sweet Spire, there are two of them. Heavens help us.”

“Well, I’ll be,” McCree says, tipping his hat up on his head so he can get a good look at himself. “Never seen a more handsome wizard in all my life. You know, we could have some fun with this. There was this tavern a couple of towns back ran by a real piece’a work, kept tryin’ to out-negotiate me. He’d sail off into the aether if had two of me to contend with.”

Genji shakes his head. “One is plenty.”

“That and I could never master accents,” Lena adds. Despite her change in appearance, the voice that comes out has not. Hearing the bright, chipper accent come from the face of Hanzo’s rough-and-tumble lover is more than disconcerting. Luckily for him, she shakes the spell away and resumes her normal shape. She accepts a bowl of stew from McCree and digs in, ravenous after their ordeal. “Oh, this is good!”

The others murmur agreements and dig in. Hanzo waits for McCree to get his own bowl to begin eating, pulling his canteen from his waist to share with the gunslinger. He gets a private smile from McCree as he accepts the drink, and though Hanzo wants to maintain his stern demeanor in front of the others, McCree’s sweetness and affection always has a way of softening him up. He presses their shoulders together in silent reply.

When he glances away, Hanzo finds steely blue eyes staring at him from the far end of the camp. It is easy to forget that Morrison is there what with the loud company he keeps. Hanzo tenses up right away as he meets Morrison’s gaze. The other man is too hard to read which only makes Hanzo’s uneasiness worse.

“Delicious,” Reinhardt offers, making quick work of his first bowl and already going in for seconds. “The first meal after battle is always the best. A meal to be thankful for.”

“Ilmater be praised,” Angela agrees.

Morrison sits forward, finally moving into the firelight, and clears his throat. “The Gods didn’t have as much a hand in our fate as these four. In all the chaos, we never got the opportunity to properly thank you.” He looks at the fire, the flames licking up toward the night sky. “You could have left us to our end and you would have been rightly justified. Until recently, if our positions had been reversed, I can’t say we would have done what you did. That we would have done the right thing.”

Looking back at their side of the camp, Morrison bows his head. “Our reasons are no excuse. For what we’ve done to you, the pain we’ve inflicted, we apologize. We are in your debt. Whatever price we must pay, name it. You are owed that much and then some.”

“We have no need for money,” Hanzo states.

“Nothing wrong with a little more,” Genji counters, shrugging when Hanzo shoots him a dirty look.

Hanzo sucks in a breath to deliver a scathing retort, to both Genji and the presumptuous Morrison, but a hand on his knee gives him pause. McCree’s indulgent gaze and endless patience reins him in. The gunslinger squeezes in assurance before addressing the others. “We appreciate the sentiment, surely we do, but there’s no need for all that.”

“Morrison speaks true,” Reinhardt says, softer than Hanzo knew he was capable of. “By our honor, we must repay your mercy.” His posture straightens and he glances at Morrison. “Swearing a life-oath is customary. I will offer my blade to their cause.”

“Whoa! Whoa, whoa now! Let’s, uh, let’s not jump the gun here,” McCree interjects, holding his hands up to stop whatever Dragonborn nonsense Reinhardt was about to subject them to. “There won’t be any need for life-oaths or life-anythings, please, put your claws away.”

Angela’s shoulders slump in relief. Hanzo can admit that seeing the flash of fear across her face at Reinhardt’s suggestion did wonders for Hanzo’s mood. “We are sorry, nonetheless,” she says, looking down at her hands clasped around her bowl. “Raised in the Faith, all I’ve known of demons is that they have no place in this realm. Not until I saw your face in the banishing circle did I ever consider that you could not be evil. The encounter has left me with many doubts that I am still learning to face.”

“All of us are,” Lena says. She rubs at Angela’s back soothingly. “Honestly, we really do want to make things right. But we understand if you don’t trust that. Just tell us what we can do to fix things, and that’s what we’ll do.”

Hanzo’s first instinct is to shoot down this little display, or to just retreat to his perch to avoid their words, but he does neither. Perhaps McCree’s virtuous streak is starting to rub off on Hanzo. As McCree said before, they have seen the error of their ways. He was the one most harmed, and he has already forgiven. Why should Hanzo hold onto the anger in his heart? Is that not why they fled the Underdark and Lolth’s teachings? To live a life not consumed by rage and hate?

McCree opens his mouth to speak but Hanzo beats him to it. “We accept your apologies,” he says. The tiefling’s head whips around in shock. “You are not the only ones with...misconceptions, that you are learning to overcome. I understand it is not easy.”

“We have not made it easy,” Morrison agrees.

McCree squeezes Hanzo’s knee once more in silent thanks before offering his hand to Morrison. “I reckon if we can just keep meeting in the middle, we’ll figure things out. That’s good enough for us.”

The grizzled human clasps McCree’s forearm, and just like that the heavy air dissipates. Genji pats Hanzo’s back and offers a smile tinged with pride before crawling forward to help himself to more stew. Wishing to be of use, Lena scoots forward to hold the lid for him. Morrison releases McCree and gestures to his shoulder. “Has your wound healed?”

“Oh, that?” Easy as you please, McCree makes quick work of his buttons and shucks that side of his shirt. “Just a flesh wound.”

Angela winces and leans forward to inspect the long, wide scar down McCree’s upper arm. It stretches from shoulder to almost the crook of his elbow. Even now, months later, it is pink against his rust-colored skin. “It is still angry,” she says. “If you would like, I could try to–”

“Naw, ain’t no need for it now. To tell the truth, it’s kind of grown on me. Another tale to tell at the tavern, yeah?”

Reinhardt lets out a boom of a laugh. “Ah, if it is tales you like, I have plenty! We shall have to share a drink and a story or two.”

“I may take you up on that,” McCree chuckles.

The damaged wing sprouting from that shoulder stretches and shakes at the rare chance to be free, and Reinhardt makes a pained noise at the sight. “Your wings!” His own wings quiver in sympathy. “Forgive me, that was rude of me, but what could have done such a thing?”

McCree laughs, a rare blush staining his cheeks at the scrutiny. The wing in question tucks back in close to his body. “A rough childhood, I guess you could say. They aren’t worth worrying about.”

Reinhardt scoffs and turns for his pack, digging deep within the depths of the leather. “Not worth worrying about, he says! Your wings are a gift, my boy! I have just the thing, don’t you worry. Picked some up the last time I visited my clan, and I’ve got more than enough to share. Here we are!” He pulls a small earthen pot from his pack, the top wrapped in silk and Draconic lettering painted on the side. He hands the palm-sized jar over to McCree. “Consider it a gift of thanks.”

“What is it?” McCree asks, unwrapping and unscrewing the lid to inspect the gray-tinted cream inside. The odd scent of eucalyptus and ash hits Hanzo’s senses.

“A restorative salve for the delicate skin of wings,” Angela says as McCree rubs a small dab of the cream between his fingers. “Remarkable, really. I am still trying to figure out what properties make it work specifically for winged creatures.”

“You use that once a day, and your wings will be fit as a fiddle in no time at all,” Reinhardt proclaims.

McCree shakes his head. “I ain’t never been able to fly with them.”

Reinhardt leans forward and winks. “Not yet. Give it time, and maybe you will.”

“Thank you,” McCree replies, looking down at the salve with more interest. Not wanting to waste a drop, he seals the pot back up and begins to redress. He digs an elbow into Hanzo’s arm. “Might need someone to help me apply it to those hard-to-reach spots, of course.”

Hanzo ignores him, going back to his stew. Between Reinhardt and Genji’s appetites, if he doesn’t eat fast there will not be much left for the rest of them. He stuffs his mouth to stop himself from smiling back at the gunslinger’s suggestive comment. Unfortunately for Hanzo’s pride, McCree’s affection for Hanzo has never been subtle.

“So,” Lena intones, smirking. “McCree said you two fell in love up a tree?”

Hanzo sputters and coughs as the unexpected question makes him inhale his food. Next to him, Genji and Reinhardt break out into a hearty laughs. The patting to his back from McCree doesn’t help at all. Eyes watering, Hanzo gets his breath back before shooting McCree a hard look. “I cannot leave you alone for five minutes.”

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself,” McCree apologizes, not the least bit remorseful as he offers Hanzo’s canteen back so he can clear his throat.

“You are the least discrete person I have ever met,” Hanzo grouses. He downs a healthy gulp of from the container as McCree drapes his serape around their shoulders.

“It ain’t often I have a captive audience. Can you blame me? Who wouldn’t want to brag about landin’ a fine catch such as yourself.” He tries to go in for a kiss to Hanzo’s cheek but the drow ducks and elbows him back hard, knocking a groaning laugh from the tiefling. “Even love your sharp edges, darlin’.”

“And now it has gotten gross,” Genji sighs, raising his eyes to the sky and shaking his head.

Lena giggles and sips at the broth of the soup. “I think it’s sweet.”

“You say that now,” Genji says. “It stops being sweet after a few hours. We’ve been listening to this for months.”

The conversation devolves into good-natured ribbing, McCree and Genji falling back on the mutual joking that dominated their travels those first few months together. Hanzo can feel himself relax as the night goes on, and the others loosen up as well. They do get around to some of Reinhardt’s wild tales, the dragonborn giving McCree a run for his money when it comes to far-fetched stories. But the stresses of the past day has worn the group thin, and one by one they bed down for the night until just McCree, Hanzo, and Morrison are left.

Hanzo can feel himself growing drowsy, what with his belly full, the fire radiating heat, and McCree’s comforting presence around him. He wants to stay conscious at least until Zenyatta awakens from his meditation to take watch. Something needs to occupy his attention. “You never told us how you came to be captured,” he says to the fallen paladin across the flames.

Morrison grunts, scratching at several days’ worth of beard growth along his jaw. “We know that the troll has loaned his horde to the lich before, so it seemed like the best way to find him was through the troll. Maybe we could have set up an ambush or something. But we were discovered.” He sighs. “After meeting the troll in-person, I have doubts our information was accurate at all. They knew nothing of how to contact the lich now.”

“What’s so special about this lich of yours?” McCree asks.

“We have been searching for a friend that we have...lost,” Morrison replies. His brow furrows as his thoughts turn dark. “The lich turned him and is under his thrall, we believe.”

“Nine Hells,” McCree mutters around the cigarillo between his teeth. “Damn noble of you to want to put him out of his misery. Not to be cruel, but ain’t that a bit dangerous? For someone that’s already gone?”

“We aren’t so sure,” Morrison replies. Hanzo raises an eyebrow at him. “We’ve confronted him several times. There is something in him, some echo of his past self. He doesn’t seem to have all his memories from life, but he’s still there. His tone, his mannerisms…” Morrison laughs humorlessly. “Even that laugh of his.”

“You think you can save him?” Hanzo asks. “That would take necromancy beyond your skill. I am not sure such a thing is even possible.”

“I don’t know. Maybe not, but we have to try.” The gray guard shakes his head and stares at the fire. “It’s my fault he is like this. He was under my command when he was taken.”

“The Coalition?” Morrison nods at McCree’s question. Hanzo watches the two carefully. This is the moment Hanzo has been dreading. The Coalition is an organization comprised of all the faiths of the righteous and good, knights and clergy on a quest of morality. At least, that’s what they would have the world believe. Many of them are misguided but harmless, but there are more than a few zealots that they’ve had to deal with. Up until today, Hanzo would count Morrison and his company among them. “I’d wondered why you were all the way out here with no back-up. Where’s the rest of your men?”

Morrison’s lip curls in a sneer as he answers. “We are no longer affiliated with those people,” he practically spits. “After Gabe was taken, we had no support. They wrote him off as fodder, not even worthy of a proper funeral. It makes me sick–”

“Gabe?”

Hanzo sits up to look at McCree. At the mention of that name, the tiefling turned stiff as a stone. Apprehension creeps into Hanzo’s bones at the gutted look on McCree’s face.

Morrison glances at Hanzo before looking back at McCree. “Yes, Gabe. Gabriel Reyes.”

McCree is on his feet in an instant, but his legs wobble under him and Hanzo jumps up to hold him steady. “What?” His hands dig into his hair, hold onto his horns like he can grip them and hold onto reality. “Gabriel Reyes? Gabe? From Calimshan?”

“Yes,” Morrison stands as well, concerned as the tiefling begins to pace with panic on his features. “You knew Gabriel?”

“You-you said he had been—that he was a—” McCree grabs Morrison by the arm and shakes him. “You let Gabe be turned? He’s an undead now, because of you?!”

Hanzo forces his way between them, pushing McCree back. “Jesse, calm down!”

“What’s going on?” Reinhardt growls, rolling up to his knees and reaching for his sword. His hand pauses when McCree allows himself to be moved, though the giant dragonborn watches him warily.

“Stand down,” Morrison says, waving Reinhardt back.

McCree covers his eyes with one broad hand and Hanzo fusses over him, dragging his fingers through McCree’s hair in an effort to calm his ire. “Fighting will not get you answers,” Hanzo murmurs. He has never heard of this Gabriel Reyes, but he must be important for McCree to react this way.

“How do you know Gabriel?” Morrison asks.

A harsh laugh cuts through the night and McCree lowers his hand, his brown and red eyes wet with emotion. “He’s family,” he says, then addresses Hanzo. “Tomorrow we leave for the Drunken Turret. We’re going to need help if we’re gettin’ Gabe back.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns. You can now also find me as wyntera on Pillowfort!
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


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